The One Percent
by thatgirlwiththebooks
Summary: John Watson handles his post-traumatic stress disorder 99% of the time. He goes to work, follows Sherlock on crazy adventures, makes food, buys milk, and fights with evil check out machines. 99% of the time he is a functional human being with a life...


John Watson handles his post-traumatic stress disorder 99% of the time. He goes to work, follows Sherlock on crazy adventures, makes food, buys milk, and fights with evil check out machines. 99% of the time he is a functional human being with a life, a boyfriend, and happiness.

The other 1%, everything is opposite.

When he falls into the void of 1%, he turns in on himself and begins to claw apart his brain like a terrified cat. His body trembles, the ache in the leg returns, he remembers the screams, the heat, the pain, the gunfire. He remembers his almost last words and then he wishes that the bullet had gone ahead and done its job. The darkness of the 1% would be enough to drive him headfirst into his medicine cabinet, were it not for Sherlock.

But then again, even though he pretends to be, Sherlock is not omniscient or omnipotent.

He can't know everything about everything, and even if he does, then he still makes mistakes. Sherlock still makes things go wrong, but he tries not to, John's high-functioning-sometimes-sociopath sometimes has him dancing on the edge of cliff of 1%, but does not push him over.

Except, Sherlock gets bored.

Very bored.

He gets so bored, so manic about his hatred of normalcy and his need to have his brain whirring at all times that sometimes Sherlock forgets about John's 1% and loses himself to the mania. Sherlock keeps guns in the house, out of sight so that they don't set John off by existing, but for when he wants to feel alive by pulling a trigger. Target shooting is too boring, no, for Sherlock likes to randomly click his finger and see where the bullet lands. It makes everything more exciting.

Except, John has the misfortune to come home one day when Sherlock flings those bullets agains the ugly wall. When he opens the door, he sees Sherlock's expression shift from delighted to horrified, and the finger on the trigger moves just enough to send the little piece of metal shooting just three feet to the left of him. It shatters a vase, and the noise pushes him off the edge of the cliff.

He falls, the world growing dark around him as he collapses against the floor. John Watson's hands dig into what is actually an old Turkish rug, but it feels like the sandy ground of Afghanistan. It burns his fingers as he hears the gunshot playing over and over again; he imagines the bullets flying overhead in a flurry of metal and blood.

_Please God, let me live, please God, let me live, please God, oh…please…_he thinks as he shivers on the floor, curling in on himself. His fingernails dig into his skin, and the pain signals that he is alive. A pair of cold hands cradle his face, and he remembers when the medic reassured him that he would make it through the night after the bullet tore apart his flesh as it dug into his body.

"John!" Sherlock shouts, frantic and uncomposed as he pulls him into his lap, "John, listen to me, you're fine, you're back home in London, you're in your flat, and it's Sherlock, John…it's me." John hears the soft voice in the back of his mind, and the picture of his boyfriend swims behind his eyelids.

Sherlock gathers him close, lifting him from the ground and moving him to the couch. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmurs, barely audible as he tries to calm John down. Eventually, the shaking subsides, and the world grows clearer around him once more. Sherlock grasps him by the hand and pulls him out of the 1%, back into the 99.

"I'm fine," John whispers, feeling as though someone shoved a bramble down his throat, "Sherlock, stop, no, I don't need tea-" except he does because he throat really does feel raw. The dark haired man thrusts the steaming cup into John's weak hands, and he numbly brings the hot liquid up to drink. It burns in the best kind of way.

Eventually, he becomes aware of Sherlock next to him, for it stops just being John wobbling on the edge of the cliff. He sees Sherlock's face, notes the stiffness of his muscles, the angling of his body. Guilt. Anger. Fear.

Because Sherlock never learns, he shoots up from the sofa, startling John into cowering against the sofa even more, and strides over to where he throws the gun on the floor. It makes a loud, clattering sound, and John bites on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The tangy, metallic taste seeps in his mouth and makes his vision go red. Suddenly, he can taste the war, he can taste the gritty sand mixed into his bloody mouth and feel the splitting of his skin.

"Bloody piece of garbage," Sherlock growls, picking up the pistol and striding over to the window, "I'm so incredibly STUPID!" Sherlock shouts, flinging the window open and throwing the gun.

With apprehension, he approaches his war veteran boyfriend and curls up on the couch next to him. John does not wish to look upon Sherlock's catlike face, into the steely eyes wracked with guilt, for he'll feel an equal amount of guilt for causing him pain. Sherlock's long, violinist fingers wrap around John's in what he assumes to be Sherlock's way of gently holding his hands.

"I…I apologize for that, John," he says with an awkward voice, never used to communicating his grievances and apologies. John, still numbed from the PTSD attack, leans his head into Sherlock's chest and brings his knees to his chest.

"Forgiven, yeah," he mutters, feeling warm again as Sherlock presses a comforting kiss to the top of his head. He smells of cigarettes and tea, with his dark hair brushing against John's forehead as the taller man pulls him further in. Later, he knows that he'll most likely smell like some kind of alcohol; whatever he can find in their pantry. He would chastise his partner for giving into his addiction, but as he feels the need to numb himself consume his mind, John realizes one thing:

They're still working on it.

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edit:

apparently people didn't understand the gun shattering metaphor. This is why I hesitate posting certain stories...


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